Wheat toast was my only concession to concerns about nutrition, otherwise I relish the mayo, lettuce, tomato, and, most importantly, crisp bacon that Sonny at Bob and Edith’s Diner has taken years in perfecting. He gets it just right. Bacon not too crisp that the flavor has been cooked out of it and yet, not at all showing soft signs of the fat that carries the deadly cholesterol I have now comes to grips with.
“Hey Chuck, where ya been lately, haven’t seen ya in a couple of months; still on that health kick, dude?” This all said over his shoulder. I hadn’t noticed him looking up or over to this side of the counter. But, like Radar in the story, movie, and television show M.A.S.H., Sonny, or even Erica, my other favorite short order cook, knows what’s going on in the world behind his back.
It’s been several years that I have ignored the other signal of my impending loss in the battle against mortality, the first being the asthma that almost did the touchdown dance of death’s victory a little more than two and a half years ago. As I used to joke about it,
“If my blood level number for high cholesterol were my weight, I could pass as a pro defensive end!” Ha ha, I think as I long to take a bite of the beautiful sandwich, catching a wad of mayo with my tongue from the corner of my mouth in my quick fantasy.
My neighbor across the street just died of cancer. It was a sudden thing, covering a few short months and while I was not that close to him his demise got me thinking. Ed was only six years older than I am. He was a widower, his wife having passed away of cancer some eight years ago. He leaves two daughters, both of them young, un-married and childless, and a host of other relatives, some of whom I’ve met over the last couple of weeks. He and I would talk at night or early in the morning, not about anything of real consequence, but good guy talk, honest and real. He consistently invited me to his poker games even after I told him of my gambling ‘issue’ in an effort to always make me feel welcomed.
I think of him often, usually when I’m taking the trash to the curb to be collected, or, sometimes, just looking at his house and remembering the stories he’d told me over the years of the neighborhood or his experiences in the navy…
Anyway, what I want to say is this. After getting considerable distance from my own close encounter with death I slipped badly in my attempts to stay open to life. I fell back asleep, as it were, and forgot the lessons of my wake up call: live freely and openly, be of service and love with courage and determination, and share the vision I have of life with an ever widening “circle of compassion”.
I knew it was time to start anew, refresh my practices for health, work, and play…all of them. I had to find a way to ritualize my commitment. Hmmm, one last BLT? Why not?
Sonny and the others I run into at the diner remind me that the world is broad and that ‘salt of the earth’ people like Sonny and Erica, Sam, Cookie, good honest people, are at the heart of my being. His comment about my health kick was laced with the sarcasm of the smack dealer spotting an old, soon-to-be-ex-junkie approaching for a fix. I told him with certainty and assurance,
“That’s my last BLT you’re about to cook for me my man, the last. I know my moment’s gonna come, but there’s no sense trying to get it here sooner than it has to, right?”
I do serious work with serious people. Coaching is part of who I am and I’m grateful to know both my clients and my colleagues. My art, this writing, my storytelling with words, music, and film is part of me as well. But the real part of me that calls me to action is my role in this family, father to my children and partner to my wife. Not being fully awake not only cheats me but cheats them too. Regardless, I still hungered for that grease, I still salivated watching the bacon sizzle on the grill, watched him pick the ripest and juiciest tomatoes. He toasted the bread just right, all this while also frying eggs, making French toast and cooking something disgusting (I’m sure) in the deep fryer.
“Here ya go man, the best BLT on the freakin’ planet! You sure you only want one?” He was grinning at me, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Does this mean we won’t be seeing you and the kids in here anymore?”
“Dude,” I told him, “you’ll be seeing me for a long time is the plan. Only after this I’ll be eating pancakes or waffles, or having a cup of that God-awful coffee!” I bit into the sandwich, savoring it all for the last time. I sat there slowly chewing as I planned a typical week, each day broken down into waking meditations and exercises for my body and mind, my music and writing; time for my coaching clients and marketing for more business. I swiveled on my stool on the counter and thought of how my children like to sit there and do the same. I planned time for me and each of my kids, individually and collectively, planned for ‘couples’ time with my wife. Planned for those longed for moments with my friends, phone calls, visits, emails, and instant messages…
I was lost in thought and fantasy. I looked up and Sonny had turned around, handing me a napkin.
“Dude, you’ve got mayo all over your face…”
I flicked my tongue out and over, catching every bit of it.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Fraternity Brother?
The first days of April 1968 were not very memorable on campus at my college except for the indignities visited upon me and my pledge line brother by the big brothers of the Pi Epsilon chapter of the Omega Psi Phi Fraternity. In Tennessee, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was visiting with sanitation workers. I remember, if I can say so without getting into double secret probation, being covered with syrup and corn flakes, told to put my clothes back on and being made to run laps around the track in the brisk chill of one spring night that week. I have other memories but they’ll remain secret as they are precious and reserved for those who have shared the rituals of initiation into that fraternity.
But the day before I was to join my fraternity we got word on campus that Dr. King had been killed and currents hot and cold swept through Princess Anne, Maryland and the rest of America. On campus we felt shock and sorrow suffused with the knowledge that this day was pre-destined; we were shocked but not surprised. Men and women who had spoken out or acted against the condition and treatment of Blacks in America had been killed before. Regardless, some semblance of campus life went on. Dr. King died on April 4th, the next day I was to be initiated into Omega. We had a ceremony to conduct in spite of our sadness, grief, and anger.
The morning of April 5th dawned with rage and fire across America. On campus we wondered what the men who had defiled our school with a burning cross were thinking and planning for us. Joe, my pledge brother, and I were charged with several tasks to complete so that we could ‘go over’ that night. I was told to get some gasoline for the ceremony. If you can picture this, I am six feet one inch tall. I had a clean shaven head and wore a dog collar, a field jacket and combat boots. As I crossed the rail tracks on the road up to town I also carried a brick (even though it was painted purple and gold and had Greek letters on it, it was still a brick!) in one hand and an emergency can to be filled with gas in the other.
A Black man was dressed like that the day after King’s assassination, walking off a Black campus that had been targeted by people burning large crosses on the football practice field, while large and small cities across America were going up in flames. I was walking but I was numb with fear. I was also determined to fulfill my task and to go on with my completion of Hell Week. I was rebuffed at the first gas station I got to but kept walking. In my small way I was going to keep going regardless of what happened. I imagined all sorts of ugly plans for me being hatched by the laughing men in that first station. I was in my own demonstration, my own march.
The second gas station I got to was manned by a tall, skinny white boy of about nineteen or so. He saw me and ran out of the office and in a mock stage whisper urged me to get into the wrecker and keep my head down. He took the gas can from me and filled it, got back into the truck after ducking back into the office for a short time and started the engine. As he pulled out of the station he asked me, “Are you one of those Kays?”
“Kays?” I answered and immediately realized he meant the Kappas. I told him which fraternity I represented and told me it didn’t matter because I was crazy as hell for walking around with a brick and gas can that day. He said he’d drive me as close to the campus as possible and drop me off.
When I asked him why he was helping me he told me the story of the fraternity boys from the “colored college” who came around and helped his family fix their farm after a hurricane. He wanted to return the favor and figured this was his chance. As he drove past groups of men that I fantasized as craven, jubilant, racist Klan members rejoicing in the killing of Dr. King he talked of how the help his family received made him realize that the negative things he heard about Black people were wrong. He was glad to help me do what I needed to do to join a fraternity. I felt safe with him even though to many of us he looked like those men who jeered us whenever we held a demonstration or who harassed us when we walked into town. Yet here he offered me protection, driving me back to campus.
Later that night after being initiated we stepped out of Trigg Hall and gazed over to the tree where my fraternity gathered and sang. The night was clear and calm, stars sparkled like diamonds. On a huge rack were suspended cast iron letters, Omega Psi Phi. Wrapped in burlap and soaked in gasoline they were lighted as we sighted them. We were elated and for a moment, we forgot the tragic news from Memphis, we could ignore the riots across the country, we were brothers after all.
And somewhere that same night in Somerset County, a tall, thin, white teenager probably never thought that he’d remain one of the most enduring memories of my time in Princess Anne. I’m ashamed that I don’t remember his name but he’ll always be my brother too.
But the day before I was to join my fraternity we got word on campus that Dr. King had been killed and currents hot and cold swept through Princess Anne, Maryland and the rest of America. On campus we felt shock and sorrow suffused with the knowledge that this day was pre-destined; we were shocked but not surprised. Men and women who had spoken out or acted against the condition and treatment of Blacks in America had been killed before. Regardless, some semblance of campus life went on. Dr. King died on April 4th, the next day I was to be initiated into Omega. We had a ceremony to conduct in spite of our sadness, grief, and anger.
The morning of April 5th dawned with rage and fire across America. On campus we wondered what the men who had defiled our school with a burning cross were thinking and planning for us. Joe, my pledge brother, and I were charged with several tasks to complete so that we could ‘go over’ that night. I was told to get some gasoline for the ceremony. If you can picture this, I am six feet one inch tall. I had a clean shaven head and wore a dog collar, a field jacket and combat boots. As I crossed the rail tracks on the road up to town I also carried a brick (even though it was painted purple and gold and had Greek letters on it, it was still a brick!) in one hand and an emergency can to be filled with gas in the other.
A Black man was dressed like that the day after King’s assassination, walking off a Black campus that had been targeted by people burning large crosses on the football practice field, while large and small cities across America were going up in flames. I was walking but I was numb with fear. I was also determined to fulfill my task and to go on with my completion of Hell Week. I was rebuffed at the first gas station I got to but kept walking. In my small way I was going to keep going regardless of what happened. I imagined all sorts of ugly plans for me being hatched by the laughing men in that first station. I was in my own demonstration, my own march.
The second gas station I got to was manned by a tall, skinny white boy of about nineteen or so. He saw me and ran out of the office and in a mock stage whisper urged me to get into the wrecker and keep my head down. He took the gas can from me and filled it, got back into the truck after ducking back into the office for a short time and started the engine. As he pulled out of the station he asked me, “Are you one of those Kays?”
“Kays?” I answered and immediately realized he meant the Kappas. I told him which fraternity I represented and told me it didn’t matter because I was crazy as hell for walking around with a brick and gas can that day. He said he’d drive me as close to the campus as possible and drop me off.
When I asked him why he was helping me he told me the story of the fraternity boys from the “colored college” who came around and helped his family fix their farm after a hurricane. He wanted to return the favor and figured this was his chance. As he drove past groups of men that I fantasized as craven, jubilant, racist Klan members rejoicing in the killing of Dr. King he talked of how the help his family received made him realize that the negative things he heard about Black people were wrong. He was glad to help me do what I needed to do to join a fraternity. I felt safe with him even though to many of us he looked like those men who jeered us whenever we held a demonstration or who harassed us when we walked into town. Yet here he offered me protection, driving me back to campus.
Later that night after being initiated we stepped out of Trigg Hall and gazed over to the tree where my fraternity gathered and sang. The night was clear and calm, stars sparkled like diamonds. On a huge rack were suspended cast iron letters, Omega Psi Phi. Wrapped in burlap and soaked in gasoline they were lighted as we sighted them. We were elated and for a moment, we forgot the tragic news from Memphis, we could ignore the riots across the country, we were brothers after all.
And somewhere that same night in Somerset County, a tall, thin, white teenager probably never thought that he’d remain one of the most enduring memories of my time in Princess Anne. I’m ashamed that I don’t remember his name but he’ll always be my brother too.
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